


Shellshock

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bitterness, Bittersweet, Blood and Violence, Chance Meetings, Deal with a Devil, Demon Deals, Escape, Family Loss, Fear of Death, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Major Character Injury, Military Backstory, Past Character Death, Pre-Canon, Self-Sacrifice, Soul Selling, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Tragedy, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Werner's motivation for making a deal was simple: All he wanted was to end the war. He was quite familiar with traps; what the Devil was asking was more than his soul—it was his pride, his honor, his free will.But at this point, who did he have to uphold those values for?





	Shellshock

All he had wanted was to end the war.

Every day, in and out, was the same—hunker down inside the trenches, tightened the strap under his chin so his helmet was securely fastened, and wait to see if this would be the day he died. His family grew smaller and smaller with each passing battle and the monster was never satisfied.

It prowled just outside, its claws hovering patiently overhead to swipe at anyone who dared stick their head out. Helmets meant nothing against sheer, sweeping, thunderous force from above. Even as they buried whatever was left, he served as a guard, clinging to his musket and keeping his keen eyes trained on the knotholes to see if the monster intended to ambush them.

Sometimes the monster lowered its eye to the peephole and stared back, enjoying the aftermath of its _sport_. Werner had shot at it once, hoping to blind it, but one of the pallbearers had cried out, distracted him, and he’d missed. In the next battle, that missed opportunity had cost him his older brother—Wagner had always sworn to follow in their father’s footsteps and that he had done to the end, their blood mingling as it coated the creature’s throat.

Werner was a soldier; he had been raised not to show his grief.

His family wasn’t there to see, so he risked it. He wept bitterly, tearing his helmet from his head and slamming it against the unyielding ground. The helmet wouldn’t dent, no matter how he wanted it to; his brother had fashioned it too well. How long was it before he stopped trying? He was never sure, but eventually he threw the helmet aside, hunkering down on his knees, curling his paws over his head and trying to remember how to breathe through a throat raw from screaming.

Memory returned with a low rumble through the ground underneath him; his breath quickened and his tear-filled eyes flew open as soon as he felt it. Even with his face pressed against the ground, he saw it in his peripheral: the shadow falling over him. Despite himself, he trembled, his fur prickling, senses sharp with raw fear and realization. It stood above him and he was bare, vulnerable.

He expected to be torn apart immediately but instead the monster _waited_. It was patient, aloof, silently lording its victory over him; it wanted him to bring his own doom down by making a move. His mind raced, his heart matching its pace as his tail quivered, brushing the strap of the helmet he’d cast aside so carelessly.

 _Hook, drag, run_. That he did, flicking the helmet toward his nearest hand and slamming it onto his head as he lunged out of the path of the behemoth death-bringer. The monster’s claws tore straight through the floor but he never looked back.

The escape from his home was the narrowest he’d ever had; he bounded over terrain that seemed to stretch for eternity, body torn, scuffed, bruised and stained by brambles, sand, rocks, mud and blood. The monster never faltered, no matter how he strained forward. The scenery was a breathless blur, suffocated by his burning lungs and fear-blind eyes. His higher senses were completely gone, with them all his training. All he had were the primal instincts of the prey and by some sheer miracle, they kept him one leap ahead of his predator.

Even years later, he couldn’t be sure how he found it in his mindless terror, but the monster had known the area better than he did; it had closed the distance just enough to swing at him, trying to throw him away from the Devil’s doors. Instead the shattering blow had sent him straight through them.

He was barely conscious when he landed but beyond his wheezing gasps and the adrenaline rushing in his ears he’d heard the infamous tones of King Dice, rich with amusement.

“Well, well…look what the cat dragged in!”

When he woke some hours later, he was still on the floor, though he’d been moved to the corner so he would be out of the walkway. No one had bothered to clean him up, but that was to be expected here, he mused distantly. He’d heard that the crowd here was used to blood and battery, desensitized to it. It didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t expecting their pity, he didn’t need it. He gathered his wits, set his claws against the wall and heaved himself upright. If he stumbled along the way, stubbing his toes on stray chips lodged in the carpet, he didn’t notice. The pain was all-encompassing by now; it was just another tingle in his overwrought nerves.

He _had_ intended to leave, of course, but King Dice had stopped him before he reached the doors, pointing out that he probably wouldn’t want to head out there while the monster lay in wait.

“’Sides, little soldier, it’s not as if you have a home to go back to.”

“No home. No family. No future,” he muttered back, glancing up at the smirking manager with shadowed eyes. “The more I think about it, the happier I am to die.”

King Dice had simply hummed a thoughtful little tune at that before setting his hands on his knees and hunkering down, as if addressing a child. Werner bristled, lifting his chin further to meet his gaze face to face. What he saw was pure, deadly calculation, near as sharp as the monster’s eyes itself, but somehow he didn’t fear it.

“How about we have a little chat about that? You’ve no reason to fold before all the cards have been dealt…You’ve got _options_.”

If something seemed too good to be true, it _had_ to be. Werner was quite familiar with traps; what the Devil was asking was more than his soul—it was his pride, his honor, his free will.

At this point, who did he have to uphold those values for? By all accounts, including his own, he shouldn’t have survived this long anyway.

“I want my enemy brought down,” he growled at the Devil, his arms folded tightly against his chest to hide the fur matted with blood, his tail planted firmly so he wouldn’t falter or sway. “I want the creature at my mercy…under _my control_. And…” He did waver there, taking a moment to find his breath. “ _Meine Familie_. My father, my brother…I want them. I want to see them again.”

The Devil had chuckled at that, leaning down from his throne and stretching out his hand. Caught off guard by the sudden motion, Werner instinctively shifted back but not far enough—the Devil’s clawed finger caught his chest, digging through the fur into the skin, just over his pacing heart. It took everything Werner had not to cringe away as the Devil nudged him back, pinning him back against the wall with a single finger.

He could run him through if he wanted. Were his demands too much? Too little? Did the Devil think his soul wasn’t worth taking? _Soldier, soldier, show no fear, soldier, courage, soldiers show no fear…_

“Cross your heart, then, Werner Werman,” the Devil purred at last, curling his finger in and up just slightly so it pressed in on Werner’s chest cavity, forcing his lungs to hitch. “…On the dotted line.”

In the end, all Werner Werman gained from the deal were shells—the shell of the cat to puppet around as needed, the ghostlike shells of his father and brother trapped within the monster’s husk, and his own soulless frame.

He had won the war. He had no soul left to be uplifted by this victory and even if he had, there was no one to remind him of it when he still fell out of bed at night drenched in sweat, thinking it was the blood of the fallen. Winning didn’t help him forget.

 _War_. War helped him forget. When there was war, it was mindless. Call it counterintuitive, but he didn’t have to think; he didn’t have to be concerned about his own skin. He feared the Devil more than he feared death in battle. When the brothers came to collect his soul contract, he couldn’t have been surer of what he had to do:

Hunker down inside the trenches, tighten the strap under his chin so his helmet was securely fastened, and wait to see if this would be the day he died.

(Not too many hours later, when he least expected it, it became the day he lived again. While the end of the war was the same, the _aftermath_ wouldn’t be. He owed the brothers a debt for what they had done. He, like so many others, owed his life to them. They returned his soul without a moment’s hesitation. They returned his free will, his pride, his honor. It was only fair that he live on and uphold those virtues for _them_.)


End file.
